


Eye of the Galaxy

by avacash



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: and in space, except from moiraine's pov, gays in space, it's literally the exact same thing as the novels, what's not to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 22:17:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avacash/pseuds/avacash
Summary: The Wheel of Time, but in space, and from a different point of view.





	1. The Approach

Something approached the moon.   
  
The outer shell of the ship gleamed dark blue, a splotch of discoloration in an otherwise black sky, though juxtaposed against the bright lights and colors of the planet in the distance below. Behind the tinted glass, two figures sat, both with their eyes fixed on the green moon. The woman wore a dress and cloak the same blue as the corda she piloted, a jewel of similar hue dangling on her forehead from a gold chain pinned to her hair. Beside her, the man wore a plainer cloak atop stranger garb, his hair tied back with a braided cord, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his side.    
  
Moiraine Damodred stared at the planet below, that something in her chest clenched tight. Apprehension filled her periphery. The similar anticipation from the other planets, moons, and villages she had visited had grown too familiar in the decades past, her internal clock ticking at an uneven pace. Fast approaching the dark side of the moon, she scanned the forested horizons, wondering.   
  
The outer atmosphere boasted less turbulence than she would have assumed. Affording a glance at her copilot, Moiraine could both see and sense his distress. To any other eye, his face conveyed little emotion, yet she knew that troubled look. Gazing upon the darkness, Lan's eyes followed the smooth trajectory of some object in the distance. Moiraine saw a mere speck of color, slow, but growing larger towards their similar destination.   
  
"What is that?" Moiraine broke the silence, nodding towards the spherical ship bobbing in the distance.    
  
Lan lifted his chin, and glanced at Moiraine. "Looks like a gleeman's ship." He leaned back into his seat, adjusting his cloak. "Suppose he's lost?"   
  
"It's more likely than him coming here on purpose." Moiraine leaned forward, starting the descent of the ship. "Manetheren has not held significance for too long, fallen out of consequence since the Trolloc Wars..."   
  
Details of the planet grew clearer, painted in with static beauty. More adventurous birds flew close to her corda, disappearing into the condensation filling the upper atmosphere. The second moon of the planet Andor eclipsed her view.   
  
That something in her chest clenched tighter, along with her jaw and fist. Out of habit, she formed weaves of air and water, swirling with fluid motion, almost as though they had a mind of their own. Letting loose the tension in her jaw, Moiraine watched the flows wind together in a familiar pattern, causing the busy clouds to dissipate, clearing her path to the ground.   
  
The ship Lan had spotted earlier came into view, confirming his assumptions. Patchy and discolored, cobbled together with the recognizable haphazardness, the caba of a gleeman approached. After a moment of clarity, the caba ducked out of view, hiding in a clump of clouds below. Moiraine felt the beginnings of a smile come to her face, but quelled it. Memories of festivals and the like from her childhood gave the appearance of a happy youth, made shinier by the tales and music of the gleemen who visited so often. However, anything before her time at the White Tower felt pale in memory.   
  
Still, that smile stayed hinted in her eyes as she focused toward the ground below. Moiraine knew Lan noticed, that hint of curiosity sensed through their bond. He said nothing, polite as ever.    
  
Slowing their descent at a steady rate of deceleration, Moiraine prepared another weave of air, softening the corda to a near silent landing. Letting go, the weave disappearing, the corda settled in a clearing outside of a little village. Checking their coordinates, Moiraine relaxed into her seat, a corner of her mouth turning upwards.   
  
The monochrome whites and silvers of the inside of their ship dulled into darkness as the corda shut down. Lan and Moiraine both sat there, still, staring into the darkness, the forest outside, both feeling the mutual sting of anticipation. Lan gave voice to the thought both wondered, the concern each time they landed, the beginning of a conversation all too frequent. Moiraine did not have to see his face to know the sulkiness of his brooding expression.   
  
"Do you think he's here?"   
  
Moiraine bowed her head, pulling the hood of her cloak over her hair, tucking stray strands behind both ears. Every time they visited another place, each new village and town presented both desperation and expectation. The fact of disappointment ever present, she knew the importance of holding out hope, that the next destination would host their journey's end.   
  
"Same answer as always, Chuckles. Light help me, I hope so."   
  
They knew, though, it would be their journey's beginning.


	2. The Inn

Nights were long on this moon, though not near as lengthy as some. Under cover of darkness, Moiraine and Lan disembarked from their corda, faces hidden beneath hoods, cloaks billowing behind them in the wind. Both boasted tired eyes, bags as deep and grey as the night.    
  
Lan stood tall, despite his spent posture, somehow looking beyond the darkness. Moiraine, though, held her head high, her stride full of purpose, commanding a regal presence despite her less than impressive stature. Indeed, while her warder stood with the comparative height of an Ogier, Moiraine's head did not even reach his chest. Even from a distance, as the pair approached the village, the height difference made for a conversation piece, marked further by the staff Moiraine used as a walking stick, a near half a head taller than herself.   
  
Across a field, one bright figure could be seen. Before the white hair and patchy cloak standing out against the darkness, even at such a distance, Moiraine witnessed his temper. Banging on the front doors of an inn, the somewhat tipsy gleeman yelled several obscenities, each progressing in offensiveness until the doors opened.    
  
Not bothering to quicken their pace, Moiraine cut across the field, observing as the gleeman and the innkeeper exchanged a quiet argument. Wilted grass crunched beneath her feet. Dry wind, air otherwise devoid of sound, rushed by her ears. In night, beneath the silhouette of its not too distant host planet, the moon heard no sound but the whispered squabble. Fading fast, the quarrel ended with the innkeeper ushering the gleeman into the place. The village stood still, frozen in the breath before a moment.    
  
Lan caught the door as the lock began to click into place. He held the door with an outstretched arm, cloak flowing down as a curtain. Not bothering to duck, the ever regal Moiraine pushed the dark green cloth away, entering the inn with her chin held high, beneath the strong arm of her warder. Any other woman, and the innkeeper might have laughed, the comic difference in height amusing at such an early hour.   
  
Gleeman already sorted, the innkeeper greeted the pair with silent intrigue. He managed to assign Moiraine and Lan their rooms, trading with the pair no small talk, given his weary state of mind. Groggy innkeeper aside, the inn offered comfort. It served as a necessary rest from their exhaustion, kept within the confines of Moiraine's corda for days. The loud silence, though, bore on Moiraine's mind.   
  
Wooden floors creaked beneath their feet, the hinges on the door responding in kind. Moiraine sat upon the mattress, the bedsprings letting out a whimper. Not bothering to fold her cloak, she let it hang on a hook above the headboard, the hem draping over the plumped pillow provided. No time wasted admiring the quaint room, she stared out of the window, admiring instead the picture painted before her eyes.   
  
Still as artwork, the town did not move. No wolves howled, no wind blew. Nothingness filled the night. Then music began to play.    
  
Soft, almost indiscernible from the silence, the sound of some stringed instrument wavered in the air. Fleeting, it only lasted for a single song, suspended in the air for one quiet moment, long enough to ease the fatigue in both the musician and his singular audience.   
  
Silence resuming, Moiraine untied the back of her corset. Loosening the laces enough to let the dress drop, she relaxed onto the bed in her smallclothes. Finally able to breathe, she took in a large gulp of air, resting a hand on her stomach, running her fingers past the ridges of her ribcage, the muscles in her stomach contracting with fervor. Exhaling, she felt the indentations caused by the boning and ties disappearing from her skin. She closed her eyes.    
  
Another song started, the sweet ballad of a Cairhienen court. She could not stay awake long enough to hear the end.


	3. The Wisdom

Donning a dark blue dress slashed with cream, the keseira on her forehead, and her cloak, Moiraine glanced out of her window, seeing a town alive. The long night ended, the moon Dvoya turned to face the sun. The light, cast upon her cloak, detailed the uneven pattern the equivalent of the scales of a reptile, giving the cloak a slight metallic sheen.    
  
Lan opened her door, greeting Moiraine with his equivalent of a smile, a grim nod beckoning her into the hall. Pressing down her skirt, and tying her cloak at her collarbone, Moiraine stood, grasping her staff. Not bothering to brush the curling mess of her hair, she instead hid it beneath the hood of her cloak. In contrast to her refreshed appearance, Lan wore the same brooding expression as ever.   
  
The mismatched pair walked together, approaching the quaint hall with regality. With a simple weave of air aiding the flow of their cloaks, billowing behind them as though touched by a breeze, they drew the eyes of the few patrons relaxing in the foyer. Now adorned by natural light and the crackling fire in the hearth, the room bore a warmth almost as welcoming as the approaching innkeeper's grin.    
  
"Welcome, welcome, the both of you! It is an honor to have your presence in our town." The robust man, with his several layers of both chins and winter clothing, bounded over to the two. As he walked, the pendant marking him as mayor hanging on a ribbon around his neck bounced. "Especially at Bel Tine, what a pleasant surprise!"   
  
Moiraine offered a pleasant nod in response. "Thank you for the warm welcome to your village. We appreciate the hospitality." Offering her hand to the mayor, she spoke again. "You may call me Lady Moiraine, and this is al'Lan Mandragoran."   
  
The mayor responded in kind, ever enthusiastic. "Bran al'Vere, Mayor of Emond's Field. And again, such an honor. Lady Moiraine, Master Lan, especially in time for- but of course. You've arrived at the best possible time. You both, the gleeman- never mind that he has yet to wake-  and the other festivities, all just in time for the start of spring. Great boost for morale." Lan interrupted the mayor's blathering with a polite cough.   
  
"Mayor al'Vere, do you have any children?" Moiraine's voice took on a sweet quality, not flirtatious, but amiable all the same. The mayor gave a vigorous nod. "How old are they?"   
  
"My daughters? I have five, the youngest eighteen, the eldest thirty five." His voice and chest swelled with pride. "Egwene- my youngest- just came of age, the Women's Circle deemed her mature enough to braid her hair. She's outside, likely singing around the Spring Pole with the other young women."    
  
Moiraine nodded, glossing over the mayor's persistent jabbering on about his town's festival. Meeting eyes with Lan, the two exchanged knowing glances, before bidding the man goodbye. Exiting the inn with a flourish of her cloak, Moiraine gazed upon the village with sympathy in her eyes.    
  
Bel Tine, a festival intended to celebrate the onset of springtime, had begun, though the entire moon still seemed in the throes of winter. Where dewdrops should coat the grass, instead the tips wilted beneath a frosty luster. Women in long woolen dresses with full sleeves fended off shivers, while children with their hair down played, ignoring the chill with defiance in their laughter. Old men bickered under their breath, shuffling past, casting rude glances at the newcomers. One person stood out from among the wandering folks, a small woman with a big stick, whose glare found Moiraine quite fast.    
  
The woman, her hair fastened in a long braid, and her dress buttoned to her neck, approached Moiraine with little apprehension. Her skin a rich russet brown, with wide though narrowed eyes, she would have appeared beautiful, had her mouth not been fixed in a scowl. Even then, with her dark stare and high cheekbones, she held a certain air of rank. "I don't recognize you."   
  
Moiraine took the woman's hand in her own, and placed a light kiss on the back of it. "You may call me Lady Moiraine, and him, al'Lan Mandragoran." The woman stared at her own hand for a moment before lowering it to her side.    
  
"Nynaeve al'Maera. What are you doing on Dvoya? In Emond's Field?" Her voice had a bitter edge, its sharpness unmistakable. "And on the eve of Bel Tine? Your timing seems suspicious."   
  
Standing straight, though still shorter than Nynaeve, Moiraine spoke once more, kind in tone. Waving a hand below her chest, as though swatting away the questions, a twinkle appeared in her eyes. "We are just passing through, child."   
  
Nynaeve's eyes widened to a considerable size, their amber tones bright with fire. "Child?" The fury in her voice, condensed to a sharp and concise tone, burned in the air between them. "I am the Wisdom of Emond's Field, and I will not be addressed as a child." Her knuckles turned pale, clenching her stick with an tightening grip.   
  
Moiraine maintained composure, bowing her head enough to express her regret. "I apologize, I had no idea. You are very young to be so accomplished, and I do not wish to antagonize someone so talented." She offered an apologetic grimace, which disappeared after an instant, back to an almost expressionless look.   
  
"I'm sure." The Wisdom did not offer any further words, pursing her lips as though she had swallowed a sour fruit.    
  
After an awkward moment, Moiraine spoke again. "As Wisdom, you must have ample knowledge of the innerworkings of the town. Can you tell me about the people in Emond's Field?"   
  
Nynaeve grumbled something under her breath, preceding a dry and crisp question. "Why?"   
  
"Lan and I might be here for a while, and I'd like to get to know the place." She knew her words as truthful, if not the entire truth. She wished to know about the people because it might help in her search, but her search could lead to her staying in one place for several days at the very least, sometimes as many as months. The primary reason for her curiosity indeed originated with her quest, but secondarily, she did prefer knowing her way around the people of a town. The population within could be as helpful and as telling as geography when it came to the navigation and understanding of a place.   
  
Nynaeve considered for a moment, deeming Moiraine's reason acceptable. "There are a lot of old families on Dvoya, many of whom have settled into their roles in the village over the generations. The al'Vere family has always been thrust into roles of leadership and unity, the patriarch of which is our current mayor, Bran al'Vere. The Luhhans are our blacksmiths, the Cauthons our mechanics, Tam al'Thor one of several farmers. Our economy relies on export of wool, and our tabac, as I'm sure you know." She cleared her throat, relaxing the grip on her stick, pointing its end towards the inn. "Many of the big decisions concerning Emond's Field are made by of the mayor, with the advisement of the Village Council, led by several patriarchs of the older families. Much of the day to day decisions are made under my own guide, with advisement of the Women's Circle, the matriarchs, who elected me."   
  
Moiraine nodded along, making note of the names as Nynaeve spoke. "The mayor mentioned a young daughter, eighteen or so years old, and a tradition of singing around what he called a Spring Pole with other women of her age. I was wondering, if the women sing around the Pole, what is it the young men do?"   
  
Nynaeve gave half of a shrug. "I doubt they're doing much in the way of preparation, as they're meant to. At Bel Tine, we hold contests and the like for everything you might imagine, and they're likely practicing for those. However, I can think of more than a few boys who might be off doing who knows what." Exasperation evident in her tone, she glared over her shoulder at the newly erected pole, muttering names under her breath.   
  
"Such as?" Moiraine leaned her head forward by a slight measure, prodding for answers.   
  
"You want a list? Firstly, Mat Cauthon, keep your eye out for that one. Always getting in trouble, with Dav Ayellin, Ewin Finngar, or Perrin Aybara, and, if he's here yet, Rand al'Thor. He lives out on a farm with his father, who I mentioned before. I could go on, but the others around their age aren't yet old enough to dance around the Spring Pole, or are already married." Nynaeve wrinkled her nose at the thought, before perishing it, and relaxing her expression to what could almost be mistaken as a smile. "They're good young men, Mat just gets them caught up in his pranks and schemes."   
  
"What are your duties as Wisdom?" Moiraine switched the subject, sensing ample hostility towards certain topics. "Besides leading the Women's Circle?"   
  
Nynaeve perked up, one eyebrow curving up with slight movement. "My main duty is as a healer, treating the ill and wounded. I am also responsible for Listening to the Wind, predicting and understanding the atmospheric changes, the weather and whatnot."   
  
At this mention of Listening to the Wind, a thought occurred to Moiraine, but she brushed it aside for the time being. "I'm not well versed in the art of healing. What herbs commonly grow here, that are most useful to your craft?"   
  
"If you're trying to cozy up to me, to wheedle information out of me, it's not going to work. You have insulted me, and pandering to my interests only makes you seem more condescending." The Wisdom shifted her weight forwards, lifting her chin high, allowing Nynaeve to peer down upon Moiraine.    
  
"I do apologize for the insult, no such offense was meant. I am curious, though, about your healing, and I genuinely want to know more about Emond's Field, and its ecology." Moiraine looked upwards, placing the hand not fixed upon her staff on her hip. "You must be quite a knowledgeable healer to have been elected as Wisdom so young, to be trusted with such responsibility." While Moiraine knew her compliments as genuine fact, the look on Nynaeve's face betrayed the Wisdom's lack of confidence in Moiraine's kind words.   
  
Another brief silence ensued before Nynaeve responded once more. "We have gardens to grow the cultured herbs, such as Acem, externally used to reduce swelling, or internally used to reduce bleeding, Feverbane, given to reduce fevers, or Andilay root, utilized to heal tired muscles to ease fatigue, but many, such as Boneknit, given to aid in the health of bones, Foxtail, given as a somnolent and mild narcotic, Marisin, used to lessen fatigue and improve clarity, or Crimsonthorn, the root of which can be used as a painkiller, I find when I venture into the woods myself." With her own free hand, she brushed her braid to her front with a small jerk, before dropping her arm to her side once more. "It's convenient to hunt and gather herbs in the same trip." She let the air stand empty for a moment, as Moiraine imagined the Wisdom chasing her quarry armed with a bow and quiver. "Do you have any more questions?" Nynaeve snapped the final thought, clenching her free hand into a fist.   
  
Moiraine shook her head, and looked up at Lan. His stony face still focused on Nynaeve, Moiraine supposed he had no queries either. "No, thank you for your time, Wisdom Nynaeve. I appreciate your help."   
  
Nynaeve's glare told no lies, but she gave a stiff nod, and with brisk steps, walked away. Moiraine watched the woman retreat into the inn, supposing as Wisdom, she must have business with the mayor. Lan, assuming the same, gestured towards the inn, but Moiraine shook her head again. "No, no point eavesdropping. I have no doubt she has some reason to bicker with the man."   
  
"She has spirit, and she cares about this place." Lan noted, as they began to walk, Moiraine still unsure of their destination. "They all seem devoted, though it may just be their festival arousing such feeling."   
  
A raven flew past, distracting Lan's eye. As he gazed upwards, tracking its movements across the brightening sky, Moiraine tapped a young boy on the shoulder, her own height, exchanging a few hasty words. Once he looked down again, Lan recognized the gleam in Moiraine's eyes. "Let's visit the mechanic."


	4. The Boys

As the afternoon approached, the Eve of Bel Tine proved itself the busiest time of the year. The first fleeting hours of the day passed, bringing about more bustle with each minute. Children in the streets ran from chores, clutching their scarves tight in the chill, while their mothers caught the unlucky few not quick enough to evade their calls. Adolescents gazed with wonder at the young men and women gathering around the Spring Pole, while those assumed adults fumbled around, pretending to know what to do. Dvoya, so quiet from a distance, serene in its simplicity, burst with colors and noise, its people determined to welcome spring.   
  
Moiraine counted the people, estimating precaution. Each chat brought her closer to answers in her search, if by the fact of elimination. Every household offered some insight into life on the moon Dvoya, a piece added to the map of Emond's Field. The mechanic's unit, scattered with various parts from various generations of caba, demonstrated the lack of visitors to the area, and the resourcefulness of the people. The smith's forge, where unique, well crafted weapons lay gathering dust in the corner, the workbench weathered and warped from the weight of identical farming tools, told an obvious message, one of conflict. Each face, each family, each fact of the place formed an image, a matrix of data which could be deciphered in time.   
  
Moiraine found herself waved away with casual pause from those she greeted. The matriarchs and patriarchs met her gaze with strong emotions in their eyes, some with curiosity, some with defiance, some with the same stony look seen in Lan's eyes. Though welcoming, due to the chaos of their preparation, she understood their greetings as little more than halfhearted. Few of Moiraine's questions received answers before stumbling into forced farewells.    
  
However, hours still passed. The sun Deveniye stood above the horizon, days away from reaching its zenith, silver against blue, matched by the darkened silhouette of the planet Andor. Moiraine and Lan wandered, as strange a sight in the town as a distant, greying dot of some far off dwarf planet in the sky. Some avoided the pair, some stared, and some sought their attention, though never for longer than a moment.    
  
Wide enough to accommodate the average caba, the main road running through Emond's Field created a circle of sorts, looping through the important parts of town in one coherent path. As such, after hours of exploration through the little village, Moiraine and Lan wound up returning to the site of the inn. Both craved a decent meal, though neither would admit it to the other.    
  
A strange sight, though not unexpected, rounded a corner, a few minutes after Moiraine and Lan. From the window of the inn, she watched a scene unfold.   
  
A caba, perhaps a decade of generations old, hovering above the rocky ground, rolled up to the front steps. The spherical vehicle held within two passengers, friends enough with the town to have collapsed the upper two thirds of the carriage. An older man and his son carried onboard the caba several casks of drinks, she presumed cider or malt liquor. The man bore a thin smile on a calm and warm face, the boy a frozen expression of awkward thought. Both wore the garb of farmers.    
  
The father exited the caba, his son following after, as the jovial mayor greeted the two. After a moment of discussion, their words darkened at the behest of another member of the conversation, a crotchety old man. Yet another figure appeared, a boy who crept along the side of the caba with impressive stealth for his lankiness, attempting to distract and amuse the son. However, the father noticed, and within moments, both boys found themselves lurching casks up the stairs of the inn, no doubt lugging them to the basement. Moiraine watched the two enter the cellar, followed by a third, excitable boy, one she had met earlier in the day. A smile crept onto her face. She stood, Lan following, and the pair left the inn.   
  
"Those three seem the right age." Moiraine spoke with soft conviction.   
  
In response, Lan nodded. "The third one might be a year or two younger, the other two seemed far closer than him."    
  
Moiraine scoffed, shaking her head. "Either that or he's merely unpopular."   
  
The three boys staggered out of the inn again, each grabbing a cask to bring down to the cellar. They ran, full of energy, invigorated with the same life as the rest of their town. Taking a barrel each, the trio chatted, and Moiraine caught a few words as they slipped back into the inn. The corners of Lan's mouth twitched.   
  
"Word gets around quickly in small towns, especially new visitors." Moiraine sighed. "Hopefully rumors haven't had time to spread too untruthfully, it can be difficult to talk to people who think you're above them."   
  
Lan did not respond, instead staring out over the green, his eyes following the path of a gaggle of women making their way to the Spring Pole, bare feet mismatched with their light winter coats. His ice blue eyes shifted to a raven, a larger bird with a deformed foot struggling towards the inn's rooftop. At the side of the building, Moiraine reached out a hand to stop Lan from walking further.   
  
"I want to meet them."   
  
The two stared at the raven, and the raven stared back. Black eyes with nothing behind them, it bore a hole in Moiraine's sight, and she pushed away a burst foolish pride when the bird broke its stare. Its eye fixed upon something that exited the inn, no part of the creature moving but its swiveling head. Moiraine took a few tentative steps forward, head held high, rounding the corner in time to see the subject of the raven's fascination. Lan leaned against the outer wall of the inn, staring at the bird.   
  
The son of the farmer, the one who came in on a caba earlier, stood tall, staring up at the raven with earnest curiosity. His height did not suit him, the lankiness of his person the likes of one stuffed into too large a suit. He would have loomed over Moiraine in height, although apologetically so. Perhaps the odd red tones in his auburn hair, unique to him in comparison to the rest of the town, caused the accusatory avian glare. Whatever the reason, the boy froze, muttered something unintelligible, and his friend acted.   
  
"I am tired of being stared at." At his friend's words, the red haired boy relaxed. After an exchange of glances, the two grabbed stones from the pavement. The two rocks thrown in simultaneous motion flew toward the bird. Curiously, it stepped aside, letting the rocks fly past its wings, eyes fixed upon the messy red hair.    
  
Perturbed, the pair turned quiet. The one with the red hair spoke, his voice the sort that did not know how to whisper. "Did you ever see a raven do that?"   
  
The other shook his head. "Never. Nor any other bird, either." Although a mere bird acted as his opponent, he met the raven's gaze with the poised calculation of a general proposing battle strategy, or a child planning a prank.    
  
Moiraine swept her cloak past her shoulder, allowing the fabric to billow behind her, summoning a weave of air to give a hint of flair. She spoke, startling the boys. "A vile bird." They glanced her way, their eyes traveling downward, all three surprised, she supposed at her height. She narrowed her eyes. "To be mistrusted in the best of times."   
  
The boys and Moiraine alike acted in surprise, as the raven let out a scream. Moiraine watched as the bird took off from the rooftop, leaving behind two feathers in its haste. She turned her back to the boys to witness its descent into the distant forest, out of her sight, before facing the trio once more.   
  
"Good morning, Mistress- ah, Lady Moiraine." The taller one's face grew pink, flushing with embarrassment, the color clashing with his red hair.   
  
"Good morning, Lady Moiraine." The brunette spoke with less caution, his voice afflicted with quavers. While his red haired companion appeared earnest and shy, the darker haired boy wore a wide grin plastered on his face.    
  
Moiraine could not help the swell of delight that filled her, a smile springing to her face. Not having to introduce one's self denied one the chance of a first impression, but forgave much of the hassle. "You know my name, but you must call me Moiraine, not lady." The mistake was a common one, but titles, like jewelry, are worn by many just to prove their worth. "And what are your names?"   
  
The third boy leapt forward, speaking with the yelping rapidity of an eager child. She missed the first half of his ramblings, but caught the end of it all. "...There's a gleeman in the village, too. And tonight is Winternight. Will you come to my house? My mother has apple cakes."    
  
"I shall have to see." Moiraine placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, and peered into his eyes, continuing to talk. "I do not know how well I could compete against a gleeman. But you must call me Moiraine." His eyes betrayed his youth, and she glanced at the other two. They stared back, wide eyed as before.   
  
"I'm Matrim Cauthon, La...ah... Moiraine." Mat began to bow, though halfway through, he realized his foolishness. However, committed to the bit, he completed the bow and came up, red faced and perplexed. With the dark skin common to all the people in Emond's Field, and the dark hair and eyes to match, his was the sort of face that would become handsome in time, the sort whose odd qualities would be forgotten over the course of a friendship.    
  
"I'm Rand al'Thor. Moiraine." Unlike his friend, and unlike his father, Rand's skin bore no genetic darkness, hosting instead a sun inflicted tan. A rolled up sleeve betrayed the paleness of his upper arms, the presence of a farmer's tan painstaking in its existence.   
  
Moiraine noticed, then, all three of the boy's faces at her own height. With one glance downward, her smile had a minor spasm. Ewin had begun to hunch over, almost in the position of a bow; Mat, on the other hand, had bent his knees into a sort of crouch, while Rand, the tallest of the three, had separated his feet gradually throughout the conversation, his heels moving further and further away from each other, until his legs formed an obtuse triangle with the ground below. Moiraine sensed amusement coming from Lan, despite his rigid, gruff expression.   
  
"I may have some small tasks to be done from time to time while I am in Emond's Field." Moiraine did not plan to stay for long, just until she could find and eliminate all of the youths from her search. However, it would be easiest if she could keep track of all those she encountered. "Perhaps you would be willing to assist me?"   
  
Moiraine took three coins from a pocket in her dress, wrapping them in weaves of spirit, tying them off. The three boys stumbled over one another in agreement, and Moiraine stifled a spurt of laughter. Walking up to Rand, Moiraine placed one of the coins in his hand, and closed his fist around it.   
  
"There's no need..." He stared at his hand, and Moiraine gave a coin to the other two boys as well.    
  
"Of course there is. You cannot be expected to work for nothing." Moiraine looked over at Mat, who nodded, now inspecting his coin. "Consider this a token, and keep it with you, so you will remember that you have agreed to come to me when I ask it. There is a bond between us now."   
  
All three nodded, and Moiraine continued. "Later, we must talk, and you must tell me all about yourselves." She glanced over her shoulder, and Lan gestured to the green. A group of young men walked past, about the right age.    
  
"Lady- I mean, Moiraine?" Rand spoke up, and Moiraine turned around to face him. His face, as red as before, now interested her less than the curiosity in his eyes. "Why have you come to Emond's Field?"   
  
A sinking feeling underwhelmed her. Half truths could be spoken easier when told to those who might not come to know her real reasons. Some part of this must have been betrayed on her face, as Rand rushed to explain himself. "I don't mean to be rude, I'm sorry. It's just that no one comes into the Second Moon except the merchants, and peddlers when the atmospheric conditions aren't too bad to get down from Baerlon. Almost no one. Certainly no one like you. The merchants' guards sometimes say this is the back end of forever, and I suppose it must seem that way to anyone from outside. I just wondered."   
  
Moiraine thought for a moment, glancing over at Lan. Explaining that she wanted to know more about the place had worked when giving an excuse for her continued presence, but the notion of her passing through could not serve her intended purpose. The smile faded from her face, and she looked up, making eye contact with Rand.  "I am a student of history, a collector of old stories." Moiraine swallowed, biting the inside of her mouth. "This place, what you call the Second Moon of Andor, Dvoya- it has always interested me. Sometimes I study the stories of what happened here long ago, here, and at other places." It was true, if on a technicality.    
  
Rand furrowed his brow, his eyebrows resembling striking red caterpillars more than they did hair. "Stories? What ever happened on the Second Moon to interest someone like- I mean, what could have happened here?"   
  
"And what else would you call it besides Dvoya? That's what it has always been called." Mat interjected, frowning.   
  
"As the Wheel of Time turns, places wear many names. Men wear many names, many faces. Different faces, but always the same man. Yet no one knows the Great Pattern the Wheel weaves, or even the Pattern of an Age. We can only watch, and study, and hope." Moiraine looked into the boys' eyes. Mat's, full of mischief and doubt, seemed distracted, and Rand's, grey and wide with curiosity, wanted answers. Both shivered, as she focused on each of them.    
  
"Later we will talk." She resumed her smile. "Later." Moiraine felt their stares as she turned her back on the boys. Lan walked beside her, and the two retreated to the inn. Moiraine looked down, and noticed Lan's hand, perched on his sword. From the corner of her eye, she saw what had raised his caution. A peddler's caba flew in the sky, approaching the village at high speed.


	5. The Gleeman

Nine coins, nine boys.    
  
Moiraine had granted upon them each a tracking device of sorts, one which would act as both a resource and a test.  The coins were worth more than enough to warrant sale, but in a way, she wanted to measure their sentiment. Once out of their possession, the tied weave would break and disappear, and she would be left with those who valued memory above money. Though not a necessary test, it could prove useful.   
  
They had returned to the common room of the inn, both Moiraine and Lan wishing to rest their legs, both still weary from their long journey. The mayor offered both mugs of ale, and both accepted, though neither drank, instead choosing to speak through hushed whispers.   
  
"There are too many ravens about, and the lack of concern from the village makes me think they've been here a while." Moiraine shifted in her seat, glancing out of a frosted window. A crowd had gathered around the peddler's caba, which had opened to reveal a vast array of colorful goods. "I can hear the rats, too, scuttling about in the darker corners."   
  
Lan eyed the peddler for a moment, before turning back to face Moiraine. "There may be eyes here, but that does not mean they know what they see."    
  
"You don't always have to talk cryptically, Chuckles. It's me. Come on." Moiraine broke eye contact, looking down at her mug of ale. The liquid bore a sweet caramel resemblance to the dark eyes of her mashtri. Siuan appeared to hate the nickname, but it always received a laugh. Moiraine smiled, taking the mug into her hands. "Light, I've been away from the White Tower too long."   
  
With a succinct nod, Lan spoke again. "It's been two decades, nearly, and so many old friends. Old faces, isn't that what you were talking about earlier?" His equivalent of a smile showed on his face, an imperceptible softening of the sharpness of his grim expression. "What, were you expecting to look at one of those boys, and see the Dragon in his eyes?"    
  
Moiraine felt the urge to throw her ale in his smug face. "You're no better than I am when it comes to pretentiousness. Standing there, with your hand on your sword, as though you're ready to slay any one of those boys if he so much as lays a hand on me- and what excuse can you give they wouldn't find insane? That you were worried because of a bird?" She leaned back in her seat, and Lan readied a retort. However, their conversation ended with an abrupt slam of a door.   
  
From down the hall, a groggy, white haired figure wandered into the common room. Loud silence filled the air, all patrons within the inn staring at the man in his patchy, bright colored cloak. He could have been handsome once, but the sheer brilliance of his white hair distracted from his features, and the slump of his shoulders hid any sense of regality in his posture. This, they all knew, was the gleeman.   
  
Despite the glares thickening the air, the man grabbed a mug of ale, and took his seat by the fireplace nearest Moiraine and Lan. Peering into the flames with squinted eyes, he took one long swig, and relaxed. The tension in the room grew white hot, yet the man remained unperturbed. At a closer examination, one could see the lines, the bags, and tired curves on his face, and the perplexing youth in his eyes, as though a younger man wore the elder as a costume. The corners of his lips, beneath a wide, curling, and altogether impressive mustache, turned upwards into a hidden grin.   
  
The silence did not last long. Conversation started up again, and a few of the older men in the room approached the gleeman, recognized as members of the Village Council, the patriarchs of the town. Some welcomed the gleeman with a smile, or handshake, though few chided him with their eyes, and one with his words, stuttered, but insistent. The gleeman waved them all away, thanking them for the invitation to the festival with halfhearted mumbles.   
  
A familiar figure then entered the inn, her head held high, somehow appearing taller than before. Nynaeve wore the same scowl as before, and her footsteps somehow bore the same weight as her frown. The gleeman heard her approach, and by the time he looked up, she stood right in front of him.   
  
"Get out." Her voice carried, not loud, not a yell by any means, but effective somehow. Engaged in a staring match with the gleeman, her eyes narrowed in concentration, she held her chin high. After he blinked, she spoke again, enunciating each word with a sharp bite on the end. "Get. Out."   
  
The gleeman placed his mug of ale back on the table, and his smile widened, to show his bright white teeth. He offered his hand to the Wisdom, giving a short bow of his head. "Thom Merrilin, gleeman. And you are?"   
  
"Tired of your procrastination. It's Winternight, the Eve of Bel Tine, and we've paid for a gleeman, and you've been asleep so long the day is half gone. Just because light lasts for 30 days on our moon does not mean you need to sleep for a full month." Thin and flat, with about as much muscle and fat on her body as on her stick, Nynaeve commanded a powerful importance, flared nostrils and all. Despite her unimpressive figure, she did not manage to but excelled at intimidating the gleeman. She stared at Thom until the man lowered his hand.   
  
"I would just like to finish my ale first, thanks." Thom reached for his ale, but Nynaeve pushed it out of the way with the end of her staff. His smile fell, and he dropped his hand to the side of his chair.    
  
Nynaeve's voice had been audible enough before, and now, she raised it to a shout, which made the hairs on the back of even Moiraine's neck stand on end. "I said, get out! If you don't move quickly enough-" She raised her stick, and the gleeman shot up out of his chair, the grin springing back onto his face.   
  
"Alright! I'm going." Thom sauntered out, quickening his pace as Nynaeve stared him down. The door closed with a bang behind him, and Nynaeve fell into her seat with something angrier than a sigh. The fussy but ever smiling mayor brought over a new mug of ale for her, trading for it the gleeman's half finished glass. Sipping her drink, looking nowhere, the weariness in her eyes only then became evident to Moiraine.   
  
Moiraine realized the grin on her own face, and turned to face Lan. He spoke first, almost a surprise to her. "She does command respect, that one. She could be helpful while we're here."   
  
"I don't think she likes me, and she seems the sort who gets set in her opinion." Moiraine shrugged, and leaned back in her chair to get a better view of the events occurring outside of the inn.    
  
The gleeman carried himself with a lost air of dignity. He approached a group of young adults, a few of whom Moiraine recognized. Among them, Rand, Mat, and a friend of theirs named Perrin, along with a girl with a twinkle in her eye reminiscent of her father's jovial grin, the daughter of the mayor, engaged in light conversation with the gleeman.   
  
Perrin seemed twice the size of any other boy his age in the town, with the muscle mass to scare a stone, but with the kindness to soothe it. His face seemed wider than it should have been, stubble giving his features shadows and shape to make them more defined. Egwene, on the other hand, petite and curvy, boasted the opposite sort of beauty from the angular, slim Nynaeve. Like her father, she held her head high, wearing a simple smile. Of similar dark coloring to the rest of the people of Dvoya, her hair pulled into a loose braid, her large eyes full of laughter, Egwene's features could have been described at length in a dozen chapters, and one would still be surprised at her beauty upon first sight.    
  
Mere minutes passed before the green filled with people, all clamoring to catch good view of the gleeman. As time passed, the inn emptied, all of the patrons aside from Moiraine and Lan pouring out to watch the impending show. Nynaeve, the last to leave, cast a wary glance towards Moiraine and Lan. Moiraine offered a wave and a smile to the Wisdom, and in response, Nynaeve finished the remains of her mug of ale, in one long and drawn out gulp, just before slamming the door as she stalked out.    
  
As the green became packed with a suitable audience, the gleeman finally shed his facade. The man threw off his tired appearance as easily as one could throw off a coat, straightening his back and pulling balls to juggle from thin air. Leaping into the air with a somersault, he began his performance.   
  
Moiraine recognized her chance, the perfect time to observe the captive audience, the near entire population of Emond's Field, but she felt drawn to the performance. Perhaps out of a mutual interest in history, perhaps out of boredom, she stood, stepping outside. Lan followed, offering no objections.   
  
Given her height, or rather lack thereof, Moiraine moved to the front of the crowd, using Lan as a buffer. The gleeman spoke in a voice which boomed as though amplified by unseen weaves of air and spirit, natural in its sound. However, halfway through some prepared speech, he stopped short, catching the balls he had been juggling- at some point, he had added three more- in his hands. Thom stared at Moiraine, catching her dark gaze with his bright blue eyes, a look of intrigue permeating his face.   
  
Lan's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he did not otherwise move.    
  
Thom, standing straight, cocked his head to the side, and spoke, his warm voice directed towards Moiraine alone. "Your pardon, but you are surely not from this district?"   
  
"Lady!" A boy from earlier called out. "The Lady Moiraine." Moiraine cringed.    
  
The gleeman nodded, granting a deep bow, spreading his cloak wide as though the colorful wings of a fantastic bird, about to take flight. As he stood, something clicked in her head, and she recognized the man. Those mustaches made the man unforgettable, and she knew him as a bard of the court. His expression, with a half smile and twinkling eyes, remained indecipherable. "Your pardon again, ah, Lady. I meant no disrespect."   
  
Moiraine waved away the apology with a movement of her hand. "None was perceived, Master Bard." He cocked an eyebrow, amused, evident in his attempt to work out her identity. "And my name is simply Moiraine. I am indeed a stranger here, a traveler like yourself, far from home, and alone. The world can be a dangerous place when one is a stranger."   
  
""The Lady Moiraine collects stories. Stories about things that happened on the Second Moon. Though I don't know what ever happened here to make a story of." The same boy from earlier piped up again, each use of the title causing a curious twitch to her eye.    
  
"I trust you will like my stories, as well." Thom peered into Moiraine's eyes with the same focus as he had before with the fire, perhaps searching for something in their depths. "Moiraine." He seemed to be tasting the sound of her name on his tongue, curiosity and a vague sense of hesitance in his eyes.   
  
"That is a matter of taste, Master Bard." Moiraine folded her arms, holding her chin high, shaking her head. The gleeman maintained his smile, but clenched his jaw. "Some stories I like, and some I do not."   
  
The gleeman chuckled. "I assure you, none of my stories will displease. All will please and entertain. And you do me too much honor- I am a simple gleeman. That, and nothing more."  His chuckling faded into a sigh, and he ended the awkward pause with another bow, this one more brief, his head upright the entire duration, maintaining eye contact with Moiraine.   
  
A shiver crawled down her spine, and Moiraine nodded, offering a thin smile to the gleeman. She walked away, forgetting any glamor or poise with her movements, knowing Lan followed close after her. As they left the scene, Thom stared after the pair, stroking his mustache, sporting a knowing smile beneath.


	6. The Trollocs

Days on moons and other similar planetoids, whose light hours might last for a month or more, were always an odd adjustment. The native people grew used to sleeping when the sun rose, as did they continue living their lives while the sky sat empty. However, the moons would on occasion oblige those more acclimated to regular hours, coinciding with a twenty four hour clock, the skies filling with clouds during that time when the people would sleep. Indeed, to any foreigner, the inherent sense of time in any person on the Second Moon would appear strange, but to the people of Dvoya, the lack of coordination between the sun and the clock was irrelevant.   
  
Tonight, though, thick and grey clouds blocked the sun's rays, inhibiting their reach to the land below. The darkness meant a dampness in the air, and a chill with the wind. An atmosphere of unsettled worries, a sky on the verge of rain, pervaded the town's good spirits, though the stubbornness of its people pierced through the anxiety with the accuracy and insistence of a fine blade.    
  
Moiraine found herself fascinated, watching Nynaeve. Egwene acted as her protégé, following the Wisdom and noting her every action, watching with intent concentration. In one breath, Nynaeve would take down a rude man twice her age and stature, in the next, she would comfort a child as she bandaged their scabbed knee.    
  
Despite the dreary atmosphere, the people danced and laughed, wearing wide grins and colorful clothes. Men and women in the green tossed together blocks of wood, stacking sticks above, surrounding the cobbling with thick, grey stones, forming the base of a bonfire. Two other circles formed, holding some significance in ceremony. Stuffing their faces with honeycakes, the kids grew weary, while those women who wore their hair in braids and their male companions downed wine as they might on any other day drink water. Children unwrapped gifts from their parents, and the adults exchanged presents between friends, everyone surprised and delighted in the new light from the fire, and those few scraps of daylight able to pierce the clouds above them.   
  
Every household had emptied onto the green, the entire population poured onto the massive field. Even those living on adjacent farms arrived in caba, with their darker skin and worn hands and feet, bringing not just their children, but their favored animals, some few goats, dogs, horses, cows, even oxen.   
  
Light cast by the three bonfires created shadows, dancing and flickering over the green, their lengthy figures fleeting and joyous. Overcast atmosphere aside, the sheer vigorousness of celebration seemed enough to beckon spring.   
  
Moiraine and Lan did not join in the festivities. Alone, save for the dying fire burning at the hearth of the common room of the inn, they sat across from one another, discussing in soft voices the day's turnout. Lan still wore his sword at his side, latched to his belt and laid almost perpendicular to the ground, its point just grazing the floor. The leather belt and sheath reflected the flames from the fireplace in the slight sheen from its years of wear. Moiraine rested her staff on her lap, tracing with one hand the grooves and notches along its length. Intricate carvings of flowers and vines crawled over the dark wood, but a decade of abuse had led to their inevitable obscurity.    
  
She stirred her glass of wine with weaves of air, looking into its golden depths. The light of the fire gave the liquid a metallic appearance, sparkling, near opaque. Lan stared into his red glass, its color brightened and darkened in subsequent intervals according to the flames' strength. Their conversation fell short of interesting, and both fell silent, the sounds of the festivities outside muted through the thick walls.    
  
Moiraine set a weave of spirit, intertwining it with her weave of air, creating a device to listen in on the Winternight party. Honing in on specific conversations, flitting from one person to the next, she heard something odd. A droning sounded, deep and monotonous with no variation, almost inaudible behind the cacophony of the celebrations. Steady in its approach, the hum grew louder, to the point where the bass of it hurt Moiraine's ears, ringing with an intense ferocity. The dogs began to snarl, their senses catching on to the sound that no one else heard. Shutting down her weaves, Moiraine looked at Lan, whose attention had diverted to her.   
  
"What did you hear?" He did not bother to glance out of the window, as the smoke from the bonfire hid anything not already blocked by the clouds.   
  
"Something's coming." Moiraine raised her hands, palms open and fingers spread, as the movement and tension helped, muscle memory aiding in her next weave. Air, spirit, and inverted weaves of fire, tangled together in a strange mess of colors, the contrasting hues blending into a rectangle of light. Waves, visible to Moiraine, projected from the cuboid, returning and progressing at noxious speeds, a blur even to her eye. Inside of the cuboid, shapes appeared. At the center, two dots, and a small distance away, a flurry of them, surrounding three large cylinders, representing Moiraine and Lan, the people of Emond's Field, and the bonfires of Winternight respectively. Gradually, more shapes formed. Spheres appeared at the top of the cuboid, representing caba, having entered Moiraine's range. With no way to tell their alignment from mere heat recognition, Moiraine let go of the weaves, and the light dissipated.    
  
Lan's eyes widened, as he and Moiraine reached the same conclusion. If a friend, the fleet would have announced its presence prior to entrance of the atmosphere. The approaching caba presented a threat, as their projected flight drew them to the nearest source of heat on the moon, on this night, the bonfires, and the people surrounding them.    
  
Of a singular mind, the pair burst out of the inn, racing towards the people. Manipulating new weaves of air, Moiraine magnified her voice, echoing with a grand ferocity. She shouted one word.   
  
"TROLLOCS!"   
  
Initial reactions were confusion, then a bundle of conflicting emotions. The crowd stared towards the inn, trying to see the subject of Moiraine's panic.   
  
A moment passed, and a silvery black sphere burst through the clouds. The children were the first to see it fall, landing with a resounding thud on the dead grass. Still, it sat alone, until another followed. Then another, and another. They trickled, at first, landing one by one, before the bulbs began to fall from the overcast skies as demonic hail, each new one causing a quake in the ground, a resounding crack as the walls of houses were hit by the machines. Smooth and dark, their metallic surfaces did not reflect the flames as they should, their shadows steady by the light of the fires. Then, they opened.   
  
Howling beasts scattered, their owners chasing after them. Daughters and sons shouted to find their parents, who in turn scrambled to find theirs. Generations crowded together and dispersed, droplets of water on an oiled surface, blooming out then rejoining, just to race away again, trying to find shelter from the monsters coming down from the sky.   
  
The caba opened like puzzles, pieces unhooking from one another, interlocked parts separating in a distorted, disjunctive manner. Metallic surfaces aside, the inner parts were much more gruesome. A head appeared, a monstrous creation of biological components powered by the most bizarre of mechanics, and there a hand, what might have once belonged to a man now flayed and inserted with some sort of circuitry. Random parts from the most common of creatures, manipulated into horrors of machine and blood, of metal and flesh, rotting and corroding and cold.    
  
One let out a roar, metal grinding against metal combined with the shouting of a beast, and fell onto all fours, and ran straight ahead, towards a house overlooking the green. Its horns plowed through the wood of the structure, and within moments, the house went up in a blaze. All of the beasts ran in every direction, some chasing people, some setting fire to houses and businesses, while others just kept running, their destinations unclear.   
  
Moiraine readied herself, and began a complex weave. Lan wasted no time, running straight towards the monsters without a hint of fear on his face. Older men and women, and young adults ready to prove themselves, found makeshift weapons, and raced towards the metal creatures. But none of them dealt the first blow.   
  
One of the trollocs saw Nynaeve. A thin woman, her eyes wide and her mouth open, one hand clutching the end of her braid, the other tight around her stick, she appeared far from intimidating at that moment. No one spared her a moment's glance of help, and no one saw her, save for Moiraine, now climbing the walls of the inn. The trolloc's misshapen face twisted into a grin of pure malice, and it bounded towards the Wisdom, each step another heartbeat skipped. It neared Nynaeve, and she let go of her staff. The creature came closer, and her empty hand clenched into a tight and shaking fist. The trolloc, then less than a span away, raised one arm, in which it held a fat, rusted blade, ready to bring it down on her head.   
  
Nynaeve punched the trolloc in the jaw.   
  
Moiraine nearly fell from her perch on the rooftop. The aforementioned jaw dropped from the trolloc's head, and it dropped its blade from surprise, and backed away. It saw then what Moiraine had seen all day- the true ferocity of the Wisdom of the Emond's Field. Nynaeve, no longer frozen by fear, grasped a handful of metal and rubber pieces, and yanked them from the beast's neck. Sparks flew from the hole, and the creature spasmed, collapsing in a lump at Nynaeve's feet.   
  
No longer able to watch the woman on the green below, or the people fighting around her, Moiraine raised her arms. The motions, though unnecessary, helped. Counting the threads in her weave, she reached the middle piece, and pulled.    
  
A thunderbolt shot down from the sky, targeting and piercing the bodies of a dozen trollocs. Again, she created her weave, and brought down a dozen more. The electric overload caused each beast to spasm, the surge coursing through their bodies in waves of pain, then burn out. Over and over, Moiraine called lightning from the sky, ignoring the petulant voice of exhaustion as it grew louder.   
  
Below, Lan brought down dozens of the creatures in his own right, using his sword with grace, as the blade sliced through the trollocs with ease. Whenever met with resistance, he switched forms, his fluid motions aeons beyond any technique the trollocs could imagine, with their simple tactic of swinging and punching. Luhhan, the blacksmith of Emond's Field, burst from his forge wielding an axe, his wife following in similar fashion. Other citizens, those who did not have dependents to protect, with weapons ranging from knives and axes to planks of wood from the bonfire, fought with equivalent bravery against the trollocs, if not more. The Second Moon had not seen such action in generations, and few if any of those citizens fighting knew if they could survive.   
  
The trollocs lacked organization, no sense of plan evident in their destruction. Lack of cooperation made them easier to take down, though they had no qualms about deserting their fellows, meaning they had to be individually targeted.    
  
Moiraine stopped for a moment, the exhaustion overwhelming her. Stumbling back from the edge of the rooftop, she gazed upon the chaos below. Lan, swirling in majestic patterns, took down three trollocs in rapid succession, before looking up at her. He sent a burst of confident, energetic emotion through their bond, a strengthening wave of encouragement, then turned away, to strike down another beast.   
  
Moiraine could not locate Nynaeve.   
  
A hoarse voice snarled at her from behind, and Moiraine turned on her heels, to find a trolloc crawling up the side of the building, to reach her. It stood tall, and stared at her. This one bore the appearance of a combination of goat and man, horns protruding from uneven parts of its half human head, flesh melting from the steel gripping its skull. Hooves and hands both infused with metal, the creature boasted a distorted pain, drool leaking from its mouth.   
  
The rapid succession of lightning strikes had left her dizzy and tired, but moreover, they had left her uncomfortable with making another weave, unable to utilize more energy. She touched saidar, and let the warmth envelop her, embracing the white glow, a trickle of strength return to her muscles. Moiraine raised her hands, and closed them into fists.    
  
Scraping metal, what might have been laughter, emanated from the trolloc, as it lunged. Moiraine dashed out of the way, and it lunged again. At the third, though, she did not move, and instead went for a spot of flesh on its stomach. A howl escaped from its mouth, before she uppercut the trolloc in the jaw, and it stumbled backwards, dropping the weapon it had hidden on its belt. After regaining its composure, the trolloc growled, gripping its own hands into fists. Moiraine, though, grabbed her skirt, hoisting it out of the way, and with one sweep of her leg, caused the creature to fall onto its stomach. A loud clash of metal against stone ensued. She clasped her hands together, and brought them down hard on the creature's back.   
  
Moiraine could not tell if the sounds coming from the trolloc were intentional cries of pain, or the sounds of the machine being broken. Either way, she continued slamming her fists onto the metal until she broke through to the roof, eight swings later. Breathing hard, she let go of saidar, and pushed herself to her feet.    
  
She stared at the trolloc, which laid still on the red roof, its blood pooling in a slow mess, trickling down the slight tilt of the tile. A thousand questions filled her mind, but fatigue pushed them all away. Ignoring the thoughts and the feelings, she lifted her skirt, and stepped over the blood, coming again to the edge of the rooftop.   
  
Fights never last long. Most of the Trollocs had finished their destructive actions, ended with an abrupt death or by their own flight from the village, in some cases literally. Some, too far away for accuracy, ran after the forests and farms surrounding, where Moiraine knew they would find little to pillage. She breathed, and readied herself for the climb down, unclenching her fists. Her hands boasted thick bruises, roughness having broken through the skin on her knuckles as well, but she pushed the pain aside, and sent a surge of thanks through her bond to Lan, who she could not at the moment see.   
  
The battle had lasted minutes, but it had done years of damage. From her perch, Moiraine saw the ashes of houses, some foundations where fires still blazed, the corpses of adults and children and animals, some brutalized by force, some caught in the flames. That which could be salvaged, from bodies and buildings both, had been piled, the remnants of years of life lost.   
  
However, many houses still stood, and those few who could offer shelter invited others into their homes without hesitation. The wounded were not abandoned. Nynaeve came to each one, and carried them, in some cases without help, to their homes, treating them with ample care and diligence, no sign of the anger of the woman who had punched a trolloc in the face. Egwene joined her, bringing towels and water, helping in any way she could. The mayor, mirroring his daughter, offered aid to any he could find, inviting those who despaired at the loss of their homes free stay at his inn. That stubbornness she had cursed before, the tenacity bred into every citizen of Dvoya, seemed a blessing.    
  
The bonfires still blazed. 


End file.
